


all the way down with me

by vlieger



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger





	all the way down with me

Torsten calls him after they announce he won't be on the World Cup team, says a quiet, "Hey," when Micha answers.

"Hi," says Micha. 

There's a silence, and then Torsten says, "Sorry about your ankle. That's. Shit. That sucks."

"Yeah." Micha pulls a hand over his face. It fucking sucks beyond belief, and he doesn't actually have words for it all, how cheated he feels, how angry, how helpless, so he just says, "Yeah," again. 

"You going away?" Torsten asks. His voice is heavy despite his best efforts. 

"Yeah," says Micha. "I just. I don't know, I can't."

"No," says Torsten. Micha can hear the faint rustle as he nods. "No, I know."

"Fuck." Micha laughs a little hysterically. "This was supposed to be-- " He cuts himself off, shaking his head, and adds after a pause, "What a fucking nightmare."

Torsten huffs a breath and Micha feels a sudden stab in his belly, some sharp, strange mix of relief, guilt, jealousy, and a nagging, multifocal want. He arches his neck and tries not to think about four years ago. 

"I might stop by," he says, breathing out, "After the holiday. We're going to go somewhere, maybe America, for. You know, far away. But after that, I might come visit."

"I," says Torsten, "Yeah, that'd be. Okay."

Micha nods. "Okay," he says. "Hey, thanks for calling."

"Yeah," says Torsten.

Micha says, "Fuck," instead of goodbye, and he hears Torsten's clipped, bitter laugh before he hangs up.

 

At night he dreams that Torsten gets recalled and smiles at him in happy greeting, in welcome, from across the training pitch, the white of his teeth catching in the blinding sun, and then Torsten is kissing him, not gentle but solid, arms rough about his neck, all power and purpose. He can smell the grass, taste it on Torsten's skin, licking the sweat from the crevices of his elbows, his collarbones, the bare inside of his wrist. He wakes up hard, his fingers and his erection digging into the sheets, his face buried in the pillow, and all he can smell is the detergent, the faint clean scent of cotton.

 

Miami is hot, sticky, and blessedly free, if he sticks to the tourist beaches and sterile white-tiled shopping malls, away from the Latin American sidestreets teeming with fans and flags, of anything related to football. It's 'soccer' here anyway, any time he hears it mentioned, and it's easier, because of that, to pretend it's something he has nothing to do with. He keeps his phone off mostly, focusing on Simone and the kids, and it's just a little easier to smile, there, in the gold American sun, feet buried in the powder-fine sand, up to his ankles in lukewarm water, just a little easier to forget.

 

When he does turn on his phone, leaning back on the bed in their empty suite, his headache is almost immediate. He spends the next half-hour sifting through various messages, most from his manager, some from his teammates, and an hour after that on the phone with Michael. 

The headache's no better when he hangs up, throbbing away behind his temples. It's the first time he's really properly thought about football since he stepped onto the plane. He's sure that ninety per cent of what came out of Michael's mouth was some variation of the words 'Chelsea,' 'contracts,' 'negotiations' and 'fuck,' and he thinks about it, thinks about his team, _his_ team at the World Cup and how strange, or not strange, it is that right now, mulling over Michael's conversation, all he can muster about anything else is a resounding, overwhelming, _I don't care._

He tips his head back to stare at the ceiling, some belated exhaustion washing over him in that moment. On impulse he flips his phone upright into his hand and scrolls through to Torsten's number, thumb hovering for the barest of seconds before he hits call. Torsten hasn't actually called him once, nor left any messages, but it's a comfort, not a slight, because Torsten knows better than anyone and doesn't ever have to ask.

"Hey," Torsten answers throatily. Micha realises too late he probably should've checked the time difference. "How's Miami?"

"It's good," says Micha. "Sorry I woke you."

"Doesn't matter," says Torsten. Micha hears him shrugging. "Nowhere to be."

Micha huffs a wry laugh. 

"How's the family?" Torsten sounds like he's moving now, probably out of the bedroom. 

"Great," says Micha. "Down having breakfast right now. They really like it here. It's a nice place for the kids."

"Planning your American football career?" Torsten's smirk is audible. "You could go join Jürgen and Beckham in California."

"It's an idea." Micha laughs. "Maybe I should look into it. I hear I'm leaving Chelsea."

"You hear?" says Torsten. Picturing the accompanying raised eyebrow is easy. 

"I don't even fucking know." Micha rubs at his forehead. "My contract's up and apparently there won't be a new deal. Michael's talking to them."

"Nice of them to wait til you're on holiday," Torsten says dryly. 

"Yeah," says Micha. He sighs and adds, "Fuck, I'm tired."

This time Torsten says, "Yeah," softly, and he doesn't speak again, but he doesn't hang up and neither does Micha, just listening to him breathe, half-dozing, the long-distance connection a little static, picturing him sprawled on the couch in his warm living room in Bremen, faint hints of pale skin through the dark.

 

Leaving Miami is a little sad, despite the foreignness of it, or perhaps, Micha thinks, settling back into his seat on the plane, because of it. Being so disconnected and so perplexed by the utterly mundane was actually kind of nice. He spends the flight drifting in and out of sleep, trying not to think about anything further ahead than the week and a bit he's set aside to spend in Germany, catching up with family and friends. Simone lets him rest, curling a hand over his arm whenever he half-starts to check on the kids, smiling kindly and tapping her fingers against his skin before getting up to do it herself. The time passes like that in a quiet, thrumming fog, like the cottony fuzz of a signal-less TV. 

They say goodbye at Heathrow, Simone and the kids heading out through customs, Micha waiting in transit for his flight to Bremen. It's a long wait, and he finds himself a seat close to the corner of the passenger lounge, tipping his head back and pretending to sleep. 

When they finally start calling his flight he sits up, leaning forward over his knees, lengthening his spine, and pulls out his phone. 

"Hi," he says when Torsten picks up. "So I'm stopping by."

"When?" asks Torsten. 

"I'll be there in about two hours, two-and-a-half," he says. 

"Oh," says Torsten. "Shit, I thought you were still in Miami. Okay. Do you need me to pick you up?"

"It's okay." Micha shakes his head absently. "I'll call you when I'm at the hotel."

"Okay," says Torsten, a little slow. 

"Hey." Micha bites his lip. "Look, if you can't, or whatever, it's fine. I should have said something earlier."

"No," says Torsten, "Micha, it's fine. I'll see you later, okay? Just let me know."

"Okay," says Micha. "Thanks."

Torsten says, "Idiot," fondly and hangs up. 

 

Torsten meets him at the hotel twenty minutes after he arrives. He says, "Good to see you," with a not-quite wry smile creasing the corners of his mouth, hinting at it but too much of other things to be overly self-deprecating. 

Micha says, "You look good," flashing a quick grin. 

"You sound like you're trying to get laid," says Torsten, flicking a glance into the room. "Where's everyone?" he adds.

"They went back to London," says Micha. "The kids want to spend some time with their friends. I thought, especially before." He stops himself and shrugs. "So I'm here, saying hello, and then I'm going to Munich for a few days to catch up with some people."

"Okay," says Torsten. 

"Okay," echoes Micha. He opens his mouth, shuts it again. Occasionally he gets the obligatory pang, the urge to say something, but there isn't a way, he's sure, of doing it without sounding condescending, and pitying, and more than anything, he knows that Torsten doesn't want him to. It is, after all, what this whole thing is all about. 

Torsten watches him for a moment, silent, mouth twisted thoughtfully, then sighs and pushes him inside the room, leaning back against the door and tugging Micha down with a hand fisted in his collar. 

It's not soft or hesitant; it never is, always something to prove, always grappling for control. It's dry, chapped lips and sharp teeth, hands digging bruises into hips and shoulder blades. Torsten says, "Fuck, you don't even know, I wanted, I _wanted_ ," and Micha knows it's not this he wanted, wants, not really, but it's some not-quite bitter reminder of it, and they'll take it. He lets himself get pushed back onto the bed, curling his fingers in the ends of Torsten's hair and tugging it away from his neck, leaning up to bite the taut, exposed skin. Torsten's jaw is clenched horribly, his eyes dark when he jerks Micha away and presses him down into the mattress.

"Turn over," he says, licking the corner of Micha's mouth. 

Micha stares him down, or tries to, counts the heartbeats, one, two, three, four, beating at every pulse-point, pressing outwards from his jugular, his wrists, the tips of his fingers, and then rolls his eyes, twisting onto his stomach. He's pretty certain he catches Torsten’s mouth twitching at the corners before his back is fully turned.

He says, "Hurry," only half-meaning it, folding his arms beneath his head and turning his cheek to rest against them, breathing out through his nose. 

Torsten says nothing, sliding his hands over Micha's back, sweeping outwards from his spine and down to tug his jeans and underwear off. He is quick about it, his fingers a little too cold, a little too blunt but precisely so, and jerky, just the right side of painful when he pushes in. He fucks Micha with his forehead pressed to the base of his skull, stretched out over him, mouth hot and wet and open against the back of his neck.

 

Micha wakes to Torsten pulling on his pants, standing by the bed with his head bowed, hair falling about his face and his hips cocked upwards, fastening the button. He looks up when Micha stirs and shoots him a half-smile. 

"I have to go," he says, "For a bit, you know." He trails off then adds, "I'll come back later. We should. How long are you here?"

"Two more days," says Micha, stretching. 

"Okay." Torsten nods. "Well, I'll see you in a bit. I won't be long."

"It's okay," says Micha. He reaches out, knuckles brushing the back of Torsten's knee. 

Torsten hitches another small, not-quite smile at him and leaves, the door closing with a quiet click.

 

He's asleep again when Torsten comes back, still somewhat jetlagged. He blinks his eyes slowly open, feeling heavy and hot all over, and Torsten crawls onto the bed, shedding his shirt and whispering, "Jesus, it's fucking hot in here." Micha glances at the air-conditioner, sitting idle and quiet. 

It's not really a problem, though; he rolls over to drape all across Torsten, distributing his weight, still naked, looping his thumb and forefinger around Torsten's wrists and pressing down with the heels of his palms, holding him there. Torsten turns his head to the side, straining but not enough that Micha thinks he actually wants to pull away. It's a subtle give and take he's come to understand only very gradually, but it's been long enough now that he's sure. He doesn't even bother to undo Torsten's pants then, too honeyed-down with sleep and sweat, just grinding and grinding, again and again until he comes, gasping, wet, into the side of Torsten's neck, and Torsten arches up into him, hips sharp and bruising, half-cursing, half-laughing. 

"You ruined my pants," he says when he's caught his breath and Micha's rolled to the side, glancing down ruefully. 

"You can borrow some." Micha yawns, waves a hand. "Pretend you spilled something, it'll be fine."

"So easy," says Torsten. 

Micha's not sure exactly what he's referring to, or even whether or not it's sarcastic. He swats the back of his hand against Torsten's bare, come-flecked stomach and says, "As soon as I can get it up again, I'm going to fuck you."

Torsten looks over at him, eyes flashing, challenging. He doesn't say no, of course he doesn't, and Micha knows that in the end he'll let him, just like always, but he glances at the latent muscles chording Torsten's arms and licks his dry lips, looking forward to the fight.

 

They fuck against the wall even though Micha thinks they're probably edging towards too old for that kind of thing. He rolls his hips firm, hard and slow, a little too slow even for his own liking, but he closes his eyes and tightens his fingers, one hand spread over the back of Torsten's neck, pressing his cheek into the wall, the other clutching his waist, and it's this excruciating, sweet itch, this slow-building crescendo that gathers and gathers until his hips stutter, finally uncontrollable, and Torsten grunts as Micha pushes him forward and forward into the unmoving wall. 

He says, when Micha's caught his breath, sounding remarkably composed, "I'm still waiting."

Micha says, "Oh," and turns him around, and it's easier than usual then, going down on his knees, sucking Torsten into his mouth. He even chances a glance upwards through his lashes, and Torsten's not looking at him, because he knows better than anyone, but his hand is hovering just shy of touching Micha's jaw, right where it hinges. His head is tipped towards the ceiling, cheeks flushed, damp strands of hair stuck and spidering across his skin. Micha blinks at the sudden rush of gratitude and affection pooling in the pit of his stomach and reaches up without thinking, guiding Torsten's hand to splay over his jaw. He's still looking up and catches the half-second Torsten snaps his eyes down, wide and surprised, before he's arching his neck again, groaning, coming. 

He leaves his hand resting against Micha's face as he waits for his breathing to slow, and it's a strange, vignetted moment, Micha still on his knees, spit-slick, swollen lips and aching thighs, not looking at each other. He finds himself leaning barely perceptively into Torsten's palm, and it's only brief, but for the first time in weeks something in him settles, alighting for a quick respite before starting up fluttering again, and Micha breathes out into the passing quiet, swallowing, sighing.

 

Torsten says after, when Micha’s pushed himself to his feet and over to the bed, grimacing, "I can stay tonight, old man. If you want."

"Yeah," says Micha, pulling the covers loosely over himself and slinging an arm above his head. "Stay."

Torsten nods and climbs in beside Micha, flicking the light switch on his way. It's a weird feeling. They don't do this often, sharing each other's space after sex, and certainly not in a long time. 

Micha says, "Could almost be somewhere else, hey?" He sighs.

"Almost," says Torsten. 

There's a silence. Micha wonders abruptly whether this is what getting old is like: this almost painful, pining reminiscence, all the time. He swallows and says, mostly for the sake of saying something, "Hey, thanks, for making the time, you know." He waves a hand. 

"There's always time," says Torsten. And then, "It's not a problem," quietly.

 

Micha blinks awake, eyelids sticking, shuttering the morning slew of light, with his nose brushing Torsten's temple, an arm draped loose across his hips. He says, "Hey," and Torsten mutters, rolling towards him instead of away, turning onto his side. Micha blinks again and says, mouth dry, "Torsten." 

There's a bruise mottling his skin like the over-ripe, dusky cheek of a peach, a fading flesh-toned, faint orange blush darkening into a sickly purplish-brown around the hollow of his eye. 

"Shit," says Micha, reaching up to brush the pads of his fingers over Torsten's cheekbone. 

Torsten lifts a hand to rub at his eyes, knocking Micha's to the side, and then skims his knuckles down, pressing into the bruise. He tips his chin away, unintentionally ducking into the light, a strange little defiant gesture, and says, "It's fine."

"I didn't realise." Micha bites his lip, dropping his hand. "You should've said."

"Why?" Torsten looks at him, raising an eyebrow. 

"What are you going to tell Petra?" 

Torsten shrugs. "I'll think of something. It's fine. It doesn't hurt."

"Okay," says Micha quietly after a silence. 

Torsten turns to kiss him suddenly, the light, restless brush of his lips at odds with the tense brace of his arms, framed around Micha but not touching, palms resting flat on the mattress. It feels a lot like the buzzing, uncertain itch beneath his skin, dry and desperate.


End file.
